The Scar

by Marina Dyachenko

  Egert winced and shivered. His dream broke off like the chirruping of a grasshopper when a hand is cupped over it.

  He had killed three men. The first was called Tolber: he was a guard, a rooster who was guileless to the point of idiocy. Egert did not even properly remember what caused the argument; perhaps it was over a woman, but it may have merely been the result of drunken boldness. The duel was brief yet ferocious. Tolber charged at Egert like a rabid boar, but Egert met his attack with a brilliant, unrelenting counterattack. Then Egert Soll’s sword struck his opponent in the stomach and Egert, whose veins were boiling at that moment not with blood, but with hot, violently burning oil, understood only that he was victorious.

  Egert could not even remember the name of the second man who died by his hand. He was not a guard, but simply an arrogant landowner who came to town with the intention of having a proper binge. He went on that binge, and, drunk as a swine, he cuffed Egert on the ear and called him a snot-nosed brat; and indeed, the man was about twenty years older than Egert. He left behind a wife and three daughters. Egert was told about them after the burial.

  Glorious Heaven, what else could he have done! He could not really bear all insults alike and not punish the offenders, could he? True, he increased the number of widows and orphans in the world, but the landowner got what he deserved, and so did that first one. It was really only Dinar who had suffered innocently.

  Three girls, the oldest about twelve. A bewildered, mourning woman. Who informed her of her husband’s death? Heaven, if only I could remember the name of that man … But memory resolutely refused to extract from the distant past a word that had long ago been forgotten because it no longer mattered.

  Far in the distance, somewhere in the recesses of the darkened corridors, a cricket chirped softly. It was very late in the night. Shuddering against his will, Egert immediately lit five candles. It was an inconceivable waste, but the room was lit up as though it were day, and in the muddled depths of the iron looking glass that hung on the wall by the door, Egert saw his scarred face.

  And at that very second, the ability to feel pain and violence as it crawled across his skin returned to him with such force that he staggered.

  Glorious Heaven! The city beyond the thick walls of the university felt like a solid, aching wound. The university itself was almost empty, and the annex was completely empty except for Egert, but Egert sensed suffering not that far away: a habitual suffering, like a permanent migraine.

  His knees buckled slightly at the thought that he would have to walk through the darkened corridors and stairs. Clutching candles in his sweaty palms—three in his right and two in his left—Egert nudged open the door with his shoulder.

  Niches yawned blackly; columns threw out malformed, creeping shadows. The faces of great scholars, which adorned the walls in bas-relief, loomed over Egert with contemptuous grimaces. In order to bolster his confidence, Egert proceeded to sing in a trembling voice: “Oh, oh, oh! Do not speak, my dear, don’t say a word! Oh, my soul is fire, but the door is squeaking: it hasn’t been oiled!”

  Hot wax dripped on his hands, but he did not feel it. The source of the pain was in front of him, located in the library.

  A light shone up from under the massive doors. Egert wanted to knock, but both his hands were occupied so he softly scraped the toe of his boot against the door. The sound of the dean’s surprised “Yes?” carried from beyond.

  Egert tried to grab the brass handle without letting go of his burning candles. It is possible that his efforts might have been crowned with success, but then the door opened in front of him, and in its opening stood Dean Luayan. He was not the source of the pain: it was coming from someone in the twilight of the book-filled hall.

  “It is I,” said Egert, although the dean surely recognized him and would not confuse him with anyone else. “It is I…” He faltered, not knowing what else to say.

  The dean stepped back slowly, inviting Egert to enter.

  Toria, as usual, was sitting on the edge of a table, and her empty book cart was leaning against her knee like a frightened dog. Egert had not seen Toria since the day he brought the dean Dinar’s book and was smacked by the heavy tome in the face. Now her eyes were shadowed in darkness. Egert could not see if her gaze was fastened on him, but the sensation emanating from the girl, the sensation of blunt suffering, became stronger, as if the very sight of Egert aroused in her a new episode of pain.

  “Yes, Soll?” asked the dean dryly.

  Egert suddenly realized that they had been talking about him, though he did not know where such certainty came from. “I came to ask,” he said dully, “about broken curses, about curses that have been lifted. Does it depend … does the possibility of deliverance depend on … does it depend on the extent to which the person is guilty?”

  Toria slowly turned toward her father, but she did not get up from the table and she did not say a word.

  Having exchanged glances with his daughter, the dean frowned. “What is it you don’t understand?”

  Toria—her left temple began to ache even more, so much so that Egert wanted to press his hand to his own head—said blandly and levelly into the darkness, “Undoubtedly, Master Soll wishes to find out if he, as an innocent sufferer, has any advantage.”

  Egert’s heart collapsed like a baited dog. Barely moving his lips he whispered, also into space, “No, I…”

  There were no words; Toria sat as still as a statue, not betraying her aching pain the slightest bit.

  “I’ll leave now,” said Egert softly, “and you’ll get better. I only … Forgive me.”

  He turned and walked toward the door. Behind him, Toria let out a faltering breath and at that moment a spasm of pain seized her, such a spasm that Egert stumbled.

  The dean also felt that something was wrong. Quickly glancing at his daughter, he shifted his glance, cool and distrustful, to Egert. “What is wrong with you, Egert?”

  Egert leaned his shoulder against the doorpost. “Nothing’s wrong with me. Can’t you see? She’s in pain. How can you not feel it? How can you tolerate it, that she—” He took a breath. Father and daughter were staring at him without blinking; the jaws of the spasm unclenched incrementally, and Egert felt a wave of relief flow over Toria.

  “You should put, I mean, it might help if you put a cold cloth on your forehead,” he whispered. “I’m already leaving. I know that I am guilty; I know that I am a murderer. What was done to me, it was only what I deserve. Perhaps—” He shivered. “—perhaps the Wanderer will not take pity on me, will not remove the scar. Would that … would that make it easier on you?”

  Even in the half dark of the gloomy library it was apparent how large and dark her eyes had become.

  “Soll?” asked the dean briskly.

  Toria finally did what Egert had long wanted to do: she pressed her palm to her temple.

  “I am leaving the university,” Egert said, barely audibly. “I am useless here and seeing me hurts her. I do understand.” He stepped through the door and walked away down the corridor. Only then did he notice that the candles, convulsively clutched in his fists, had dripped wax all over his clothes and shoes, and had burned the palms of his hands.

  “Soll!” the dean called out behind him.

  He did not want to turn around, but the dean grabbed him by the shoulder and twisted it back, peering into Egert’s exhausted face. There was such intensity and aggression in his gaze that Egert became terrified.

  “Oh, just let him go,” Toria requested softly. She was standing in the doorway and her soul seemed somewhat easier: perhaps because her headache had abated.

  Gripping Egert by his elbow, the dean marched him back to the library and forcefully sat him down in a creaking chair. Only then did he turn to Toria. “Why didn’t you take a cure immediately?”

  “I thought I could manage,” she answered distantly.

  “And now?”

  “Now, it’s better.”

  The dean looked search
ingly at Egert. “Well, Soll? Is it better? Is it true?”

  “It’s true,” he answered, barely moving his lips. His candles had extinguished; prying his fingers apart with difficulty, he let the stubs fall to the floor. Velvety moths pivoted around the ceiling lamps with soft rustles, and the far-off cry of the night watch echoed through the dark window facing the square.

  “How long has this been going on?” asked the dean casually, as if he did not care about the answer.

  “It’s not constant,” explained Egert, gazing at the moths. “It happened once before, and today … today was the second time. I have no control over it. Can I go now?”

  “Toria,” asked the dean with a sigh. “Do you have any questions for Master Soll?”

  She remained silent. As he left, Egert twisted his head around to look at her and caught her gaze, filled with blank astonishment, following him.

  * * *

  Summer in the city choked on hot dust, and in the course of one long, hot day, the lemonade hawkers earned more than they usually did in a week. People on the streets sizzled in the heat, and even the Tower of Lash emitted its ritual howl less frequently than usual. Hawkers erected flaxen awnings with long silk tassels over their heads: it seemed like enormous, many-colored jellyfish were oozing across the square. In the university’s great building dust whirled, content to settle everywhere without the constant disturbance of clopping feet; it gleamed in shafts of sunlight and covered the rostrum in a thin layer; it enveloped the benches, the windowsills, the statues of scholars, and the mosaic floors. Life glimmered only in servants’ quarters; in the dean’s study, where he was working hard on the biographies of archmages; in the room of his daughter; and in the annex, where the auditor Egert Soll lived in complete solitude.

  The old washerwoman, who had abandoned her cleaning for the time being, now prepared only dinner; Toria took it upon herself to cook breakfast and supper for herself and her father. Knowing full well that the dean, absorbed in his work, might eat nothing more in the course of a day than a few sunflower seeds, Toria went out into the city every day to purchase food. She brought the food to his study and paid close attention so that every last crumb was, in the end, eaten.

  Egert almost never left his room. Sitting by the window, he often saw Toria crossing the university courtyard with a basket on her arm. After thunderstorms, which then once again gave way to severe heat, a broad puddle lingered for a while on the path through the courtyard. One day, as she made her way home from the bazaar, Toria came across a sparrow that was bathing in this puddle.

  But perhaps it was not a sparrow: its sodden wings were puffed up and Egert could have easily taken the gray, insolent fellow for some far more noble bird. Apparently, the bather was receiving indescribable pleasure from its warm bath, and it did not notice Toria as she approached.

  Toria slowed her pace and then stopped. Her proud, chiseled profile, like the mint of an empress on a coin, was turned toward Egert. He expected that she would step over the puddle and go on her way, but she did not move forward. The bird splashed in its bath with abandon while the girl, holding a heavy basket in her hands, waited patiently.

  Finally the sparrow—or whatever kind of bird it was—finished his bath and, without paying any attention to the considerate Toria, flitted up to one of the exterior rafters to dry off. Toria shifted the basket from one hand to the other, calmly and amiably nodded to the wet bird, and continued on her way.

  Returning from the market the next day, Toria only just avoided running straight into Egert by the grand entrance.

  The basket was in considerable danger and would surely have suffered harm, had Egert not swept it up with both hands. They were both startled by the unexpected meeting and simply stared at each other for a time.

  Toria would not admit to herself that Egert had surprised her yet again. Apparently, some alteration had occurred within him: his scarred face was still as exhausted and mirthless as before, but that hunted expression had disappeared from his eyes. It was the expression of a dog cowering before his master’s stick; Toria had become accustomed to seeing it in his eyes and had learned to despise it. Now they were simply tired, human eyes.

  Recently, Toria caught herself thinking about Egert Soll far too often. She believed that thinking about him was unseemly, but avoiding the thoughts turned out to be impossible: he had greatly confounded her that night in the library. He had stunned her not so much by his ability to sense pain as by his admission of his own guilt, an admission that was inconceivable, in her estimation, from the mouth of a murderer. Without being completely aware of it, she now wanted to see him again and examine him more attentively: Did he really grasp his own baseness? Or was it nothing more than a trick, a pathetic attempt to arouse sympathy and obtain a reduction of his sentence?

  “Return the basket, please,” she said coolly. There were no other words that would come to her tongue at that moment.

  Egert obediently handed her goods back to her. The green tips of a magnificent bunch of scallions swayed, hanging over the edge of the basket; the neck of a wine bottle and a hard, round piece of golden yellow cheese peeked out from under the thicket of scallions.

  Grasping the basket by its rounded handle, Toria walked farther along the corridor. The load pulled down her shoulder, and in order to keep her balance she had to compensate by throwing her free arm out to the side.

  She had just made it to the corner when behind her she heard a hoarse, uncertain voice. “May I … help?”

  She slowed to a stop. Over her shoulder, without turning, she said, “What?”

  Egert repeated himself dispiritedly, already anticipating her refusal. “May I help? That’s got to be heavy.”

  Toria stood for a second in confusion; her usual asperity sprang to the tip of her tongue, but she did not let it loose. She suddenly recalled that heavy book, smashing away at the pale, drawn face, at the scarred cheek, at the bloodstained lips. Then her heart, as well as her arm, began to ache, as if she had kicked a homeless dog for no reason at all.

  “You may help me,” she said with ostentatious indifference.

  Egert did not immediately understand, and understanding, he did not immediately approach her: it was as if he was afraid that she would strike him again. Toria frowned peevishly and looked away.

  The basket again changed hands. In silent procession they both walked on, Toria in front and Egert behind. Without a single word they traveled through the courtyard to the household annex. In the deserted kitchen Toria took the basket with a regal gesture and set it on the table.

  It was high time for Egert to turn around and leave, but he tarried. Was he waiting, perhaps, for her to thank him?

  “Thank you.” Toria let the words tumble out of her mouth. Egert sighed and she, without planning it, suddenly asked, “Before, you didn’t ever feel others’ pain, did you?”

  Egert said nothing.

  “And it is true,” Toria explained to herself, “that if you had felt it, then you could not have thrust your sword into another living man, yes?”

  She immediately regretted her words, but Egert only nodded wearily. He affirmed impassively, “I could not have.”

  An onion, a bunch of carrots, and a bunch of parsley were extracted from the basket. Egert watched as though spellbound while a poppy seed muffin; sweet, yellow butter; and a pot of cream followed these items into the light of the world.

  “And now,” Toria continued relentlessly, “right now, this very second, are you able to feel it?”

  “No,” Egert responded dully. “If it happened constantly, I would go out of my mind, and I wouldn’t have to wait for my meeting with the Wanderer.”

  “Only a crazy person could want to meet the Wanderer,” snapped Toria, and once again she regretted what she said because Egert suddenly blanched.

  “Why?”

  Toria was not happy with such a turn in the conversation, and so the fresh cheese, folded in a napkin, was thrown onto the table with a certain amount
of temper. “Why? Don’t you know anything about him at all?”

  Egert slowly traced his finger along his scar. “This is all I know. Will this knowledge suffice?”

  Toria paused, unable to find an answer. Egert looked at her for the first time since encountering her by the entrance: he looked at her without averting his eyes, sorrowfully and a little guiltily, and his gaze bewildered Toria. To hide her confusion, she bit off a piece of the muffin without thinking.

  Egert swallowed and averted his gaze. Then, cheered that she could smother her own discomfort, she plucked a white crumb from her lip and asked, “Do you want something to eat?”

  She had suddenly remembered that, because he lived in the annex, he was fed only once a day when the good woman, hired to carry dinner, delivered his meal to him. Somewhat disconcerted by this revelation, she hesitated slightly and then handed him a piece of the poppy seed muffin.

  “Take it. Eat.”

  He shook his head. Looking to the side, he asked, “But you, what do you know about the Wanderer?”

  “Take the muffin,” she said adamantly.

  For a few seconds he just looked at the rich morsel, dripping heavy crumbs, then he stretched out his hand to take it, and, very briefly, he brushed Toria’s fingers.

  They both experienced a momentary awkwardness. With deliberate efficiency, Toria continued to unpack her purchases, and Egert thrust his white teeth into the muffin as soon as he came to his senses.

  Toria watched as he ate; demolishing in a second both the inside and the poppy seed-strewn top, he nodded gratefully.

  “Thank you. You are … very kind.”

  She twitched her lip mockingly: My, what a polite young man.

  Egert again looked her right in the eyes. “So you really don’t know anything about the Wanderer?”